


mfm- 
iiiii 






m^M^^m^^- -■■'■■■ 

X'' ' 



'.'■(m 










i^WyHiy 



^V>:/C 



^ .^'*«.^ti 



i^-J^ 






POEMS 



HENRY ABBEY 






J\'0.. 






NEW YORK : 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

549 & 551 BROADWAY. 
1879. 









9%# 



OOPTRIQHT BT 

HENRY ABBEY, 
1879. 



CON^TEN TS. 



FAOK 

The Statue ......... Y 

The Troubadouk ........ 10 

The Patience of Liberty . . . . . . .12 

The Age of Good ........ 15 

The Singer's Alms . . . . . . . .1*7 

The Drawbridge-Keeper ....... 20 

The Emir's Charity . . . . . . .23 

The Roman Sentinel . . . . . . .26 

The Stowaway Boy . . . . . . . .29 

The Patriot's Courage ... .... 33 

The Bedouin's Rebuke . . . . . . .3*7 

The Host's Humility ....... 40 



CONTENTS. 



The Emperor's Mercy 
The Ringer's Vengeance . 
The Caliph's Magnanimity 
The French Marshal 
The Austrian Hussar 
The Preacher's Dole 
The Picture 
The Hermit 
The King's Sacrifice . 
GuYOT OF Marseilles 
The Gallky-Slave 
Agnes Hatot 
The Artist's Prayer . 
The Jew's Piety . 
A Morning Pastoral . 
Winter Days 
A Suit of Armor 
Low Tide . 
Vanderlyn at Rome . 
While the Days go by . 
Science and the Soul 
Mary Magdalene . 



PAGE 

. 46 
50 



67 
70 
73 
77 
80 
8S 
87 
91 
93 
98 
101 

loa 

]06 
108 
114 
116 

12a 



CONTENTS. 5 

PAOB 

Foreknowledge ........ 129 

Donald ......... 134 

Recompense ......... 136 

Autumn Ballad ........ 139 

A Guardian Angel ........ 141 

May in Kingston . . . . . . . . 146 

Faciebat ......... 149 



POEMS. 



THE STATUE. 

In Atliens, when all learning centered there, 
Men reared a column of surpassing height 

In honor of Minerva, wise and fair; 

And on the top, which dwindled to the sight, 

A statue of the goddess was to stand. 

That wisdom might obtain in all the land. 

And he who, with the beauty in his heart. 
Seeking in faultless work immortal youth. 

Would mold this statue with the finest art, 
Making the wintry marble glow with truth. 

Should gain the prize : two sculptors sought the fame- 

The prize they craved was an enduring name. 



THE STATUE. 

Alcaraenes soon carved his little best; 

But Phidias, beneath a dazzling thought 
"Which like a bright sun in a cloudless west 

Lit up his wide, great soul, with pure love wrought 
A statue, and its changeless face of stone 
With calm, far-sighted wisdom towered and shone. 

Then to be judged the labors were unveiled ; 

But, at the marble thought, that by degrees 
Of hardship Phidias cut, the people railed. 

"The lines are coarse, the form too large," said these: 
" And he who sends this rough result of haste 
Sends scorn, and offers insult to our taste." 

Alcamenes' praised work was lifted high 

Upon the capital where it might stand ; 
But it appeared too small against the skj, 

And lacked proportion from uplooking land ; 
So it was lowered and quickly put aside, 
And the scorned thought was mounted to be tried. 



THE STATUE. 

Surprise swept o'er the faces of the crowd, 

And changed them as a sudden breeze may change 

A field of fickle grass, and long and loud 

Their mingled shouts to see a sight so strange. 

The statue stood completed in its place, 

Each coarse line melted to a line of grace. 

So bold, great actions that are seen too near, 
Look rash and foolish to unthinking eyes; 

They need the past for distance to appear 
In their true grandeur; let us yet be wise, 

And not too soon our neighbor's deed malign. 

For wliat seems coarse is often good and fine. 



THE TKOUBADOUR. 

So many poets die ere they are known, 
I pray you, hear me kindly for their sake. 

Not of the harp, but of the soul alone, 

Is the deep music all true minstrels make r 

Hear my soul's music, and I will beguile, 

With string and song, your festival awhile. 

The stranger, looking on a merry scene 

Where unknown faces shine with love and joy, 

Feels that he is a stranger: on this green 
Which fronts the castle, seeing your employ. 

My heart sank desolate ; yet came I near. 

For welcome should be found at all good cheer. 



THE TROUBADOUR. H 

Of Provence I, and ask nie not, I pray, 

" If not in Provence, where may love abide ? " 

For there, Neglect, tliat, coming down the way, 
Or priest, or Levite, takes the other side, 

Neglect, false neighbor, flung at me the scoff: 

"Honor is cold, and is the most far off! " 

Love is the key-note of the universe — 

The theme, the melody ; though poorly decked, 

Masters, I ask but little of your purse. 
For love, not gold, is best to heal neglect. 

Love yields true fame when love is widely sown ; 

Bloom, flower of love ! — lest I, too, die unknown. 



THE PATIENCE OF LIBEKTY. 

As in a dream I saw her, wliere she stood, 
Calm, self-contained, tlie goddess of the free, 

Upon a height above the storm and flood, 
Looking far off on what was like the sea. 

Her gown was plain, and on her head she won 

The cap, that once, in Brutus' time, they bore. 

The lofty heights whereon she dwells alone, 
To many hearts seem hard indeed to scale ; 

"Wilder than those above the Yellowstone, 
With rugged paths swept by the leaden hail 

Wherewith Oppression, in his utmost rage. 

Drives back her worshipers in every age. 



THE PATIENCE OF LIBERTY. 13 

Few are the ways that lead to where she stands, 
Not filled with slain and hedged with bloody death ; 

But now I saw her on the misty lands, 

And sweeter than the morning's was her breath, 

And radiant with glory shone her face, 

Kindly, sublime, and of immortal grace. 

"Thine is the land where all, at last, are free; 

But is thy freedom real or a dream ? *' 
She asked ; " and dost thou not despair of me. 

To see my rights abused, wealth made supreme, 
Truth scorned by party zeal, and everywhere, 
Honors degraded? — dost thou not despair?" 

I knew that these, her questions, were a test. 
And from the fullness of my faith I said : 

" O Liberty ! there is not in my breast 

Harbor to moor thy doubt ; the blood we shed. 

The bitter tears, the long, heart-rending pain. 

Were all for thee; thev have not been in vain. 



14 THE PATIENCE OF LIBERTY. 

" Often a public wrong a use fulfills, 

And, howsoe'er we gauge it, leads to good ; 

I look to time to cure a thousand ills, 
And make thee widely, better understood. 

True love of thee will heal the wrongs we bear 

I trust to time, and I do not despair!" 

She stood with one hand on an eagle's head. 
The other pointed to an age to he. 

" JSeither do I despair," she proudly said, 
" For I behold the future, and I see 

The shadow and the darkness overpast, 

My glad day come, and all men free at last ! " 



THE AGE OF GOOD. 

I HAD a vision of mankind to be: 

I saw no grated windows, heard no roar 

From iron mouths of war on land or sea ; 
Ambition broke the sway of peace no more. 

Ont of tlie chaos of ill-will had come 

Cosmos, the Age of Good, Millennium! 

The lowly hero had of praise his meed, 
And loving-kindnesses joined i-oof to roof. 

The poor were few, and to their daily need 
Abundance ministered : men bore reproof — 

On crags of self-denial sought to cull 

Rare flowers to deck their doors hospitable. 



IG THE AGE OF GOOD. 

The very bells rang out the Golden Rule, 

For hearts were loath to give their fellows pain. 

The man was chosen chief who, brave and cool, 
Was king in act and thought : wise power is plain 

And likes not pomp and show : he seemed to be 

The least in all that true democracy. 

O Thou, the Christ, the Sower of the seed, 
Pluck out the narrowness, the greed for pelf; 

Pluck out all tares ; the time let come, and speedy 
When each will love his neighbor as himself 1 

The hopes of man, our dreams of higher good. 

Are based on Thee; we are Thy brotherhood. 



TTIE SINGEK'S ALMS. 

In Lyons, in the mart of that French town, 
Years since, a woman leading a fair child, 

Craved a small alms of one who, walking down 

The thoroughfare, caught the child's glance, and smiled 

To see, behind its eyes, a noble soul. 

He paused, but found he had no coin to dole. 

His guardian angel w^arned him not to lose 
This chance of pearl to do another good ; 

So as he waited, sorry to refuse 

The asked-for penny, there aside he stood, 

And with his hat held as by limb the nest. 

He covered his kind face, and sang his best. 



18 THE SINGER'S ALMS. 

The sky was blue above, and all the lane 

Of commerce where the singer stood was tilled, 

And many paused, and, listening, paused again, 

To hear the voice that through and through them thrilled. 

I think the guardian angel helped along 

That cry for pity woven in a song. 

The singer stood between the beggars there. 
Before a church, and, overhead, the spire, 

A slim, perpetual finger in the air 

Held toward heaven, land of the heart's desire. 

As though an angel, pointing up, had said, 

" Yonder a crown awaits this singer's head." 

The hat of its stamped brood was emptied soon 
Into the woman's lap, who drenched with tears 

Her kiss upon the hand of help : 'twas noon. 

And noon in her glad heart drove forth her fears. 

The singer, pleased, passed on, and softly thought, 

- Men will not know by whom this deed was wrought." 



THE SINGER'S ALMS. 19 

But when at night he came upon the stage, 

Cheer after cheer went up from that wide throng, 

And flowers rained on him : nanght could assuage 
The tumult of the welcome, save the song 

That he had sweetly sung, with covered face, 

For the two beggars in the market-place. 

Oh! cramped and narrow is the man who lives 

Only for self, and pawns his years away 
For gold, nor knows the joy a good deed gives ; 

But feels his heart shrink slowly, day by day, 
And dies at last, his bond of fate outrun ; 
[No high aim sought, no worthy action done. 

But brimmed with molten brightness like a star, 

And broad and open as the sea or sky. 
The generous heart — its kind deeds shine afar. 

And glow in gold in God's great book on high. 
And he who does what good he can each day. 
Makes smooth and green and strews with flowers his way. 



THE DRAWBRIDGE-KEEPER. 

Dreckee, a drawbridge-keeper, opened wide 
The dangerous gate to let the vessel through ; 

His little son was standing by his side, 
Above Passaic River, deep and bine, 

While in the distance, like a moan of pain. 

Was heard the whistle of the coming train. 

At once brave Drecker worked to swing it back, 
The gate-like bridge that seems a gate of death ; 

Nearer and nearer, on the slender track, 

Came the swift engine, puffing its white breath. 

Then, with a shriek, the loving father saw 

His darling boy fall headlong from the draw ! 



THE DRAWBRIDGE-KEEPER. 21 

Either at once down in the stream to spring 
And save his son, and let the living freight 

Rush on to death, or to his work to cling, 

And leave his boj unhelped to meet his fate — 

Which should he do? Were you as he was tried, 

Would not your love outweigh all else beside? 

And yet the child to him was full as dear 
As yours may be to you — the light of eyes, 

A presence like a brighter atmosphere. 
The household star that shone in love's mild skies — 

Yet, side by side with duty stern and grim, 

Even his child became as naught to him. 

For Drecker, being great of soul and true. 
Held to his work, and did not aid his boy. 

Who, in the deep, dark water, sank from view. 
Then from tlie father's life went forth all joy ; 

But, as he fell back pallid with his pain, 

Across the bridge in safety shot the train. 



22 THE DRAWBRIDGE-KEEPE]<. 

And yet the man was poor, and in his breast 
Flowed no ancestral blood of king or lord ; 

True greatness needs no title and no crest 
To win from men just honor and reward ; 

Nobility is not of rank, but mind, 

And is inborn and common in our kind. 

He is most noble whose humanity 

Is least corrupted : to be just and good 

The birthright of the lowest born may be. 
Say what we can, we are one brotherhood,. 

And, rich or poor, or famous or unknown. 

True hearts are noble, and true hearts alone. 



THE EMIK^S CHARITY. 

In Samarcand, the nether Morning Star, 

There lived a vizier, treasurer of the reahn, 

Who did not wed until the treasurer, Time, 

Had counted down to him his fortieth year. 

His loving bride was younger by a score 

Of such good coin, and beautiful as dawn. 

Mismatched the twain, for she was generous, 

And sent no beggar empty from the house ; 

Yet gave her own, nor touched her husband's gold. 

But he, the treasurer, was miserly. 

And tightened up the purse-strings as he said, 

"I too must beg unless you cease to give." 



24- THE EMIR'S CHARITY. 

The emir in disguise once went that way, 
And, hearing of the kindness of the wife, 
Had will to test it : knocking at the door, 
No wife appeared ; but in her stead, in wratli, 
The vizier, cursing tlie rag-clad, crust-fed churl 
Who dared to seek for dole and break his peace ; 
Then stroked his beard, and swore by Tamerlane, 
By the silk cerements and the sacred tomb, 
That Charity herself should cease to be. 

" Plold ! " quoth the beggar ; " say not so of her. 

I praj' rather that upon the street. 

Yea, on the crowded corners of the street, 

She yet will stand, this virgin, Charity, 

And, hearing her true words, the people there 

Will all espouse her cause, and make the world 

Mount up and spurn the level of to-day. 

Despise no man who asks alms at thy door ; 

A precious diamond may be meanly set. 

It does not soil the angels' holy wings 



THE EMIR'S CHARITY. 25 

To hover round the poor. I doff disojuise ! 
Behold, I am the emir! yet, to prove 
I am not all devoid of charity, 
Still keep the boon of ottice that I gave." 

Hearing a stranger's voice, the v^ife came forth, 
And saw her husband kneeling on the step, 
And knew the emir's kind and thoughtful eyes, 
And smiled on him and kissed his gentle hand. 
And from that day, the alms-folk testify, 
No string was tightened round the portly purse ; 
But evermore the wife, with cheering smiles, 
Doled bountifully to the grateful poor, 
Until, at last, when at the door of heaven 
She knocked, herself a beggar, Allah smiled 
And gave her alms of everlasting peace. 



THE ROMAN SENTINEL. 

Death, or dishonor, which is best to taste ? — 

A Roman sentinel in Pompeii, 
When God's hot anger laid that city waste, 

Answered the question, and resolved to die. 
His duty was, upon his post to bide 
Till the relief came, let wliat might betide. 

He stood forgotten by the fleeing guard, 

Choosing that part which is the bitterest still — 

His face with its fixed purpose cold and hard. 
Cut in the resolute granite of his will. 

"Better," he said, "to die, than live in shame; 

Death wreathes fresh flowers round a brave man's name.'^ 



THE ROMAN SENTINEL. 2Y 

Life is the wave's deep whisper on the sliore 

Of a great sea beyond : the soldier saw 
That day the light in broad sails hoisted o'er 

The drifting boat of dawn ; nor dreamed the flaw, 
The puff called death, wonld blow him with thera by, 
Out to the boundless sea beyond the sky. 

He watched the quaking mountain's fire-gashed cheeks, 
And saw come up the sand's entombing shower. 

The storm darts out its red tongue when it speaks, 
And fierce Yesuvius, in that wild hour, 

Put forth its tongue of flame, and spoke the word 

Of hatred to the city from the Lord. 

The gloom of seventeen centuries skulked away. 
And standing in a marble niche was found 

A skeleton in armor all decay ; 

The soulless skull was by a helmet crowned. 

Cleaving thereon with mingled rust and sand, 

And a long spear was in the crumbling hand. 



28 THE ROMAIC SENTINEL. 

In Pompeii are beasts of stone with wings, 

Paved streets with marble temples on each side, 

Baths, houses, paintings, monuments of kings ; 
But the arched gate whereat the sentry died, 

The rusted spear, and helmet with no crest. 

Are better far to see than all the rest. 

O heart, whatever lot to thee God gives. 

Be strong, and swerve not from a blameless way ; 

Dishonor hurts the soul that ever lives. 

Death hurts the body that is kin with clay. 

Though Duty's face is stern, her path is best: 

They sweetly sleep who die upon her breast. 



THE STOWAWAY BOY. 

When tliree days out upon the salty sea, 

There came on deck a winsome, blue-eyed boy ; 

Not any means to pay his way had lie, 

Yet looked up to the broad, free sky with joy. 

His face was bright and fair, for what is good 

Shines out and fears not to be understood. 

But on the boy a doubting eye was cast, 

And soon there questioned him the master's mate 

He said that his step-father, near a mast 

Had hidden him, with food, and bade him wait 

Within the place until the ship reached shore. 

Where a kind aunt would help him from her store. 



30 THE STOWAWAY BOY. 

Tlie mate was slow to feel the story true, 

And thought the sailors fed the fareless youth, 

And often questioned him before the crew ; 
But the boy's lips were steadfast to the truth. 

At last the mate avowed the glaring lie 

Should be confessed, or else the boy must die. 

Thereat he bade a sailor fetch a rope. 

And looking at his watch, with anger said : 

" Boy, in ten minutes you will be past hope. 
And, from the yard-arm, hang till you are dead, 

Unless you speak, before the time be spent. 

And of the lie make full acknowledgment." 

The boy looked up and saw the speakers face, 
And, urged by fear to call the truth a lie. 

Resisted fear, and stood in bitter case, 

For it was hard that one so young should die ; 

But, braving death, the tender stowaway 

Knelt down, and asked the mate if he might pray 



THE STOWAWAY BOY. 31 

Above its hell of fire tlie tortured steam 

Shrieked, hissed, and groaned in terror and in pain ; 
Yet worked the ship's great muscles, shaft and beam. 

The vessel seemed a sea-gull or a crane 
Beating the denser air that floods the world, 
And round and round her watery wings were whirled. 

The skj bent over the contented sea, 

And, like the boy's face, was both pure and clear ; 
The ship's folk gathered round him anxiously, 

The Lord's Prayer from his earnest lips to hear. 
The mate, in tears, by trouble sore oppressed. 
Caught up the boy and clasped him to his breast ! 

Truth's simple grandeur is her priceless wear, 
And virtue is the crown upon her head ; 

So plain is she that even a child may dare 

To take her hand and go where she will tread. 

Not her shall serpent error fascinate: 

She strikes it down, and rules in time and fate. 



32 THE STOWAWAY BOY. 

Oling thou to Truth and keep her rigid line, 
Nor pander to the false on either side ; 

Truth dwells with Wisdom, makes the face to shine, 
To honor leads and is to God allied: 

Oh, in thy trial hour, whate'er befall, 

Trust her with faith, for she is all in all ! 



THE PATEIOT'S COURAGE. 

When our free land's great captain, Washington, 

Was' colonel in Virginia, ere the war 
He led for Independence had begun, 

A passing cloud obscured his rising star: 
His sometimes frightful passions woke, and they, 
Then unbroke coursers, had their fiery way. 

For while between opposing factions there 
The bloodless battle by the ballot rolled. 

Into one's pride whom he had found unfair 
He plunged a speech-wrought weapon keen and cold ; 

And the hurt voter, with a blow unmeet. 

Stretched his insulter senseless at his feet. 



34 THE PATRIOT'S COURAGE. 

Fortli hied the di*ead news, waxing as it went, 
Fed by the food it gave to every tongue ; 

Uprose, wild-eyed, the wrathful regiment, 
And idle sword and flintlock were unhung, 

And followed rolling drums, whose speedy call 

Was like the beating of the hearts of all. 

When grief has rage soft pity turns to stone. 

These loved their leader as they loved their land ; 
Aslant, like shining rain, their muskets shone, 

And harsh the voice of vengeance pealed command 
*' All foully slain our colonel lies, struck down ! 
On, comrades ! Give no quarter ! Burn the town ! " 

Meanwhile, the stricken was made whole again, 
And, hurried by the townsfolk, rode to meet 

The armed, excited torrent of fierce men 

Advancing toward the small, elect'ral street ; 

And gladly holden in their wond'ring sight. 

They pressed around him with unfeigned delight. 



THE PATRIOT'S COURAGE. 35 

But vengeance is so inconsiderate, 

Shorn of excuse it yet pursues its prey ; 

And the battalions, filled with gathered hate, 
Were willed to leave black ruin on their way. 

He charged them, lest the love he bore should cease, 

To bate their wrath and turn again in peace. 

So they went back ; and slowly he returned, 

Chastising his quick passions ruthlessly ; 
For who, that with a foolish rage has burned, 

Knows blame as bitter as his own may be ? 
But when red morn rolled up its splendid wheel, 
Joy followed close on Sorrow's fleeing heel. 

For then betimes, a lark-blithe letter flew 

Out of a heart where kindness brooded warm ; 

But, to the voter's short and narrow view, 
It was the white-winged augury of storm ; 

It asked a meeting only, yet he heard 

Of challenge and of duel in the word. 



30 THE PATRIOT'S COURAGE. 

For who could know that one would be so bold, 
To face and brave the time ? — in that it meant 

That each his honor on his sword should hold ? 
The voter straightway to the other went, 

And Washington, with courage strong and grand, 

Held forth his prudent and heroic hand. 

And in his love of truth, sublime and glad, 

To him who struck him down he made amends 

" If with the satisfaction you have had, 

You are content, oh, let us then be friends ! 

For, looking back on our affray with shame, 

I feel that I alone have been to blame." 



THE BEDOUIN'S REBUKE. 

Nebar, a Bedouin of noble heart, 

That from good men received of praise the fee, 
Owned a brave horse, with which he would not part, 

Because from death he once had run him free. 
The man and betist were friends, and it is vice 
To sell our friend or friendship for a price. 

The horse was black and strong, his step was proud, 
His neck was arched, his ears alert for sound. 

His speed the tempest's, and his mane a cloud ; 
His hoofs woke thunder from the desert ground ; 

His eyes flashed lightning from their inmost core : 

Victor of Distance was the name he bore. 



38 THE BEDOUIN'S REBUKE. 

Dalaer, a Bedouin of anotlier tribe, 

Had often wished to buy this famous beast ; 

And as he smoked, and heard his friends describe 
Its comely parts and powers, the wish increased ; 

But Nebar said tlie horse should not be sold, 

Though offered wealth in camels and in gold. 

Then Dalier put on rags, and stained his face, 
And went to wait for Nebar, seeming lame. 

Him soon he saw approach at daring pace 
Upon the envied horse, and as he came 

He cried to him : " For three days on this spot 

Have I lain starving — pity me my lot." 

And, seeing Nebar stop, said on, " I die — 
My strength is gone ! " Down Nebar sprang, 

And raised him gently with a pitying sigh. 
And set him on his horse : a laugh outrang, 

And Daher shouted as he plunged his spurs, 

" Fair price refused, one sells at last for burrs.'^ 



THE BEDOUIN'S REBUKE. 39 

" Stay ! stay ! " cried Nebar ; Daber paused to bear : 
" Since God bas willed tbat you my beast sbould take^ 

I wish yon joy ; but tell no man, for fear 
Another who was really starved might make 

Appeal in vain ; for some, remembering me, 

Would fail to do an act of charity." 

Sharper than steel to Daher seemed remorse ! 

He quickly turned, and springing to the ground, 
With head bowed low brought ISTebar back his horse; 

Then, falling on his peaceful breast, he wound 
His arms about his neck to make amends. 
And ever afterward the two were friends. 



THE HOST'S HUMILITY. 

Humility is the excess of love 

We have for others — if that be excess 

Which He, who for our help came from above, 
And wore our humbler nature, loved to bless ; 

But Env}' is the coward side of Hate, 

And all her ways are bleak and desolate. 

Nathan, a wise man, who had nursed with care 
A tree of trade that bore sufficient coin, 

Lived not alone for self, but thought to share 
His wealth with others; so at once to join 

His thought to action, where two highways crossed 

He reared a palace, fair and white as frost. 



THE HOST'S HUMILITY. 41 

aid, and smooth wine made to 
For all who came from either east or west ; 
Beggars were not too base for him to know, 
And each was served as an invited guest ; 
And when at last there came the parting day, 
He gave them gifts, and saw them on their way. 

From these mere springs, his fame in rivers flowed, 
And proud Mithridanes, not taking heed 

That charities, when done for praise, corrode 

And lose their virtue, thought that each good deed 

He too might do and win as high renown, 

For Nathan's name was better than a crown. 

So he too built a palace wide and high, 
And clad it with the banners of his land ; 

The prosperous towers touched the golden sky, 
The cooling fountains tossed on either hand : 

And this, and Nathan's palace, seemed to be 

Let down from heaven for works of charity. 



42 THE HOST'S HUMILITY. 

But proud Mithridanes was envious still, 

As Nathan's name was held above his own ; 

And soon he willed to go to him and kill 
The generous mao, that he, and he alone, 

Tlirough the broad world might win the fame he could 

For hospitality and doing good. 

See how vile Envy may mislead our hearts. 

And feed us with unpalatable sin ! 
Mithridanes for Nathan's door departs, 

And, reaching it, with peace is welcomed in ; 
Even a parrot up a stairway heard, 
Stabs at his envy with a friendly word. 

But ere he gained that house muniiicent. 

He overtook a gray beard on the road, 
And said to him, as by his side he went, 

" I go to Nathan and his praised abode." 
" I am his servant," said the old man s:rav. 



THE HOST'S HUMILITY. 43 

This man was Nathan, though unknown to liira 
Whose deadly purpose slumbered in his breast ; 

And often in the park, at twilight dim, 

They met thereafter, one with gloom oppressed, 

And dealt in words so pleasing and so true. 

That, from the commerce, wealth of friendship grew. 

Here, in the green seclusion of the wood. 

The proud guest told the frost-beard that he came 

To slay his envied rival great and good — 

That, furled by death, the banner of his name 

No more should over hill and vale be sent 

As the most noble and benevolent. 

"That you may do the deed and not be seen," 
Meek Nathan answered, "at the bud of day 

Your foe will walk beneath this covert green, 
And you may fall on him, and be away 

Before his death is bruited : lest in wrath 

They should pursue you, flee the mountain-path." 



44 THE HOST'S HUMILITY. 

At morn, to sla}' the host, went forth the guest, 
And saw the old man walking 'neath the trees, 

The friend that he of all men loved the best. 
" Lo, I am Nathan ! great Mithridaues ; 

Here, where the heart is, pierce me to the hilt ; 

Pause not with fear, but slay me if thou wilt." 

Then at his feet the guest fell prone, with tears : 
"My dearest father, I was proud and base; 

Forgive me, for remorse in after-years 

Will rack me, when I think upon thy face ! 

No more my envy makes a foe of thee, 

For I behold thy vast humility.'" 

"Arise!" said Nathan. "Though I do forgive, 
I need not ; for, in wishing to excel, 

You have done nothing wrong ; proud monarchs live 
Who, to be great, have thought it wise and well 

To slay whole armies on the field of strife ; 

But you have only sought my humble life." 



THE HOST'S HUMILITY, 45 

The pleasant jewel of good Nathan's face 
Shone with the inborn luster of his soul. 

As round the other's neck, with loving grace, 
His friendly arras in full forgiveness stole ; 

While coward Envy, as she turned to fly, 

Envied the triumph of Humility. 



THE EMPEROR'S MERCY. 

When Theodosius, who ruled the land, 

Had laid exactions, deemed too hard to bear, 

On Antioch, angry revolt was planned, 

And, hoarsely surging to the public square, 

The folk dashed on the statues of the crown. 

The ruler's and his wife's, and broke them down. 

But when the tide of fury ebbed away. 

Upon all hearts there lay a stranded dread ; 

The people sorrowed for their deed that day. 

And on thought's canvas saw their danger spread. 

A somber painter, born of fault, is fear. 

That magnifies the ills it makes appear. 



THE EMPEROR'S MERCY. 47 

So Bishop Flavianus, strong of pen, 

In truth a poet, but who humbly found 

That he of greater use could be to men 

In preaching Christ, than if with laurel crowned, 

Left Antioch, and hastened on his way. 

The ruler's wrath to soften and allay. 

He reached Constantinople, and was led 
Before the emperor, who heard his plea : 

*' We place a wreath on even the wicked dead ; 
Since wrong, repented of, no more can be. 

On our dead wrong let now thy pardon rest. 

Like a white wreath upon a lifeless breast." 

With darkened look the ruler made reply : 

" In breaking down the statues, your mad throng 

Have reared another to the angry sky — 
The black, colossal statue of a wrong ! 

This shall abide the fury of my hate ! 

I am resolved : my word is law and fate." 



48 THE EMPEROR'S MERCY. 

With saddened soul the bishop turned away ; 

But, knowing that, of boys with harps, a choir 
Before the emperor made glad the day. 

While he reclined at meat, there came desire, 
Through these, the singers, to renew his plea, 
And with a song the threatened city free. 

Straightway, with loving care, he wrote an ode — 
Glad that, at last, to turn the wheel of use. 

The sparkling brook of his clear numbers flowed. 
" That art is best," he said, " which can induce 

To serviceable ends : of old, art's kings 

Were fain to do good work on useful things." 

The rliyme was finished, and the gliding words 
Launched on a sea of music, whose sweet tone 

Was like the twilight notes of vroodland birds; 
And when from off his golden-curtained throne, 

The ruler came to feast, like seraphim 

The choir with harps took up the song for him. 



THE EMPEKOR'S MERCY. 49 

They sang the wrong and fears of Antioch, 
And of the might that mercy gives to kings ; 

They woke, with fingers swift, a flying flock. 
The fine compassion of the trembling strings. 

The ruler cried, "Oh, cease your plaintive song, 

For I forgive the city of tlie wrong ! " 



THE RINGEK'S YENGEANCE. 

In Florence dwelt a tall and handsome youth, 
Courted and praised by fashion's fickle throng, 

Plighted to one he loved in simple truth — 

A lady proud, whose black hair, fine and long, 

Some said, was like a flag, that waved or fell 

Above her heart's deceitful citadel. 

The youth's days now were bright, as days may be 
To all who love as lovers always should ; 

But one fell night a cry of dread ran free, 
And one beloved in deadly peril stood. 

About her house the hot flames roared and broke 

In waves of fire that dashed a spray of smoke. 



THE KINGER'S VENGEANCE. 51 

Prone on the seat within her oriel 

The lady sank; then he, her lover, came 
And lowered her to the street; but it befell 

That, as he turned back from the leaping flame, 
The burning roof crashed in, and to the floor 
A heavy, falling beam his body bore. 

They brought him forth, all bleeding, burned, and crushed, 
And long he lay, and neither stirred nor spoke; 

]^ot yet by wayward death his heart was hushed, 
But seemed a blacksmith pounding stroke by stroke, 

And mutely toiling on from sun to sun, 

Until his fateful labor should be done. 

For love and youth with smiling life are fraught; 

They cling to life wherein to move and dwell. 
The youth came back, at last, to life and thought, 

And longed to see her whom he loved so well. 
" She will be true and kind to me," he said, 
" And glad shall be the days when we are wed. 



52 THE RINGER'S VENGEANCE. 

"Dear love! she will behold me with her heart. 
And pity me, because my lot is hard ; 

She will not look upon this outer part 

That for her sake is crippled and is scarred." 

False hope, poor heart ! — for, when the lady came. 

She turned away with loathing, to her shame. 

As one in swamps sees lireflies flare in gloom. 
And fancies them the street-lights of a town 

Whose spires and domes in lofty shadows loom,, 
Yet finds at dawn but lowland, so came down 

The fond hopes of the sufferer, who found 

Beneath his feet a waste and useless ground. 

Yet Sorrow brings no dagger in her hand 

To slay the heart with whom she comes to dwell ; 

The youth lived on, and he was wont to stand 
Before a church, and listen to the bell 

That in a great spire, bright with golden gloss, 

Laughed from its yellow throat beneath the cross. 



THE RINGER'S VENGEANCE. 53 

Then loss of wealth with other damage fell, 

And for a beggar's pittance he became 
The ringer of the wide-mouthed, thick-lipped bell, 

Whose noisy somersets he made proclaim 
Vesper or mass or lovers to be wed. 
Or pulled it with large pity for the dead. 

And now they bade him ring a joyful peal ; 

For she who once had clothed his heart with pain, 
Before the altar 'neath the bell would kneel, 

And wed another ; then, for good or bane. 
There came two spirits out of east and west. 
And battled fiercely in the ringer's breast. 

Hate's dark-winged spirit like a shadow came, 
And carried for a shield the ringer's wrong ; 

The spirit's eyes burned with a quenchless flame ; 
His sword, revenge, was merciless and strong. 

And now resembled justice, as it fell 

With such swift strokes as he could best compel. 



54 THE EINGER'S VENGEANCE. 

The spirit of Forgiveness was like day, 

Was crowned with love divine, and for a shield 

Had peace and innocence; while in the fray 
The wounds he took were patiently concealed. 

He strove to break his dark opponent's sword, 

And save the ringer from a deed abhorred. 

All the long night before the wedding-morn 
The ringer in the belfry worked, dark-browed, 

And, as he looked forth when the day was born, 
The better spirit in his heart was cowed. 

The nails were drawn, the beams made weak at last,, 

Which once had held the great bell lirm and fast. 

He saw the glowing landscape, and to him 
It was a Clip, and there the red sun stood, 

A drop of splendid wine upon the rim. 

And clouds arose in somber cloak and hood. 

And, with their stained lips at the far, blue brink. 

Seemed evil genii that had come to drink. 



THE RINGER'S VENGEANCE. 55. 

Arrived in time, with followers in file, 

The happy bridegroom and his smiling bride 

Advanced to organ-music up the aisle. 

And knelt down at the altar, side by side. 

The bride looked up beneath her veil of lace, 

And saw with fear the ringer's livid face. 

Then sprang he to the rope to ring her knell, 
With all the rage of his inclement soul ; 

The huge, inverted lily of the bell 

Shook in the gust, and, with a last loud toll, 

Fell from its place, resounding far and wide. 

And gave to Death the ringer and the bride. 

Alas ! for her ; it was her sin to feign 

True love that she nor felt nor understood. 

Alas ! for him, that he avenged his pain ; 

He might have won the noblest brotherhood ; 

For, wrongs that are forgiven in our sin, 

Are doors where loving angels enter in. 



THE CALIPH'S MAGNANIMITY. 

A TRAVELER across the desert waste 

Found on his way a cool, palm-shaded spring, 
And the fresh water seemed to his pleased taste, 

In the known world, the most delicious thing. 
"Great is the caliph!" said he; "I for him 
Will fill my leathern bottle to the brim." 

He sank the bottle, forcing it to drink 

Until the gurgle ceased in its lank throat ; 

And, as he started onward, smiled to think 
That he for thirst bore God's sole antidote. 

Days after, with obeisance low and meet, 

He laid his present at the caliph's feet 



THE CALIPH'S MAGNANIMITY. 57 

Forthwith the issue of tlie spring was poured 
Into a cup, on whose embossed outside, 

Jewels, like solid water, shaped a gourd. 

The caliph drank, and seemed well satisfied, 

Kay, wisely pleased, and straightway gave command 

To line with gold the man's work-hardened hand. 

The courtiers, looking at the round reward, 
Fancied that some unheard-of virtue graced 

The bottled burden borne for their loved lord, 
And of the liquid gift asked but to taste. 

The caliph answered from his potent throne : 

" Touch not the water ; it is mine alone ! " 

But soon — after the humble giver went, 

O'erflowing with delight, which bathed his face — 

Tlje caliph told his courtiers the intent 
Of his denial, saying : " It is base 

Not to accept a kindness when expressed 

By no low motive of self-interest. 



58 THE CALIPH'S MAGNANIMTY. 

" The water was a gift of love to me, 
Which I with golden gratitude repaid. 

I would not let the honest giver see 

That, on its way, the crystal of the shade 

Had changed, and was impure; for so, no less, 

His love, thus scorned, had turned to bitterness. 

" I granted not the warm, distasteful draught 
To asking lips, because of firm mistrust. 

Or kindly fear, that, if another quaffed. 
He would reveal his feeling of disgust, 

And he, who meant a favor, would depart, 

Bearing a wounded and dejected heart," 



THE FKENCH MAKSHAL. 

Macmahon up the street of Paris came, 

In triumph from Magenta : every one 
Had heard and praised the fearless marshal's name^ 

And gloried in the deeds that he had done. 
Crowds packed the walks, and at each pane of glass 
A face was set to see the hero pass. 

Grand music lifted in the morning air 

Its eloquent voice : loud-mouthed bells were rung ;. 
Guns boomed till echoes welcomed everywhere ; 

On buildings and in streets the French flag hung. 
And, of a breeze, like fortune, made the toy. 
Thrilled every heart with patriotic joy. 



^0 THE FRENCH MARSHAL. 

But while tlie marshal up the street made way, 
There came a little girl clothed all in white, 

Bringing in happy hands a large bouquet ; 

Her flower-sweet face seemed fragrant with delight. 

Well pleased, the soldier, dark and fierce at need, 

Raised up the child before him on his steed. 

The pearly necklace of her loving arms 

She bound on him, and laid her spring-like head 

Against the autumn of his cheek, with charms 
Of smile and mien ; while to his shoulder fled 

Her gold, loose hair with flowers like jewels set. 

And made thereon a wondrous epaulet. 

He seemed more like an angel than a man. 
As, father-like, he paid back each caress; 

Better than all his deeds in war's red van. 
Appeared this simple act of tenderness. 

The people cried " Huzza ! " and did not pause 

Until the town seemed shaken with applause. 



THE FRENCH MARSHAL. 61 

So, from this hour, the general became 

The boast of the enthusiastic crowd ; 
Each gave some flower of praise to deck his fame ; 

They knew him brave — though often cold and proud ;. 
But looked not for the kindness undefiled 
That he had beamed upon the loving child. 

O cynic, deem no more the world all base, 
And scoff no more with either tongue or pen; 

You do not see the face behind the face. 
If God exists, there must be noble men ; 

And many, who to us seem hard and cold. 

Have sunshine in their hearts as pure as gold. 



THE AUSTKIAN HUSSAR, 

With sabers drawn and guidons dancing free, 
And music dying in the joy it made, 

In gay Yienna rode the cavalry, 

The pride of Austria, on grand parade. 

Like a rose-garden, with fair colors set, 

"Was the wide plain whereon the host were met. 

A little child — a lovely, rosebud girl — 

In white attire, and ribbons green as moss, 

Straying away, lost in the crowded whirl, 
Into the open field she thought to cross, 

Eushed out, when to the bugle's cheerful sound 

A squadron of hussars came sweeping round. 



THE AUSTRIAN HUSSAR. 63 

From the main body of the horsemen these 
Rode down to honor with their steel salute 

The empress, where she sat in velvet ease, 
A diamond 'midst the cluster of her suit. 

She cried with horror, all her peace undone, 

To see the danger to the pretty one. 

Directly on the child, like angry flame. 

Had wheeled at headlong speed the brave and strong; 
They faced the dazzling sun, and, as they came. 

Carried a gust of pennant air along. 
Swift as unbridled rage, they seemed as though 
In battle charging fiercely on the foe. 

The poor, bewildered babe, in blind affright. 

Ran toward the squadron, and her shadow there, 

Hiding before her from the living light. 
Flat on the grassless level dry and bare, 

Moved gauntly, and it took the boding shape 

And gloom of death from which is no escape. 



64 THE AUSTRIAN HUSSAR. 

Seeing the ill, the mother of the child 
Stood spellbound in the depth of her distress. 

Her gaze was set; her panting bosom wild 
That she to save her babe was powerless. 

So, too, the multitude stood still and dumb; 

Alas! from them no hand of help could come. 

So many near, it seemed a bitter thing 

That the abandoned stray er, small and fond. 

Should be down-trampled by the galloping, 
Pitiless hoofs of steeds caparisoned. 

For she, the harmless rosebud pure and sweet, 

Already stood before the brutal feet. 

As when, in polar regions white and still. 
The compass points no longer to its star, 

But downward to the ocean dark and chill, 
And frost and heavy silence only are; 

So now hope's compass failed, amid the drear 

And pallid stillness of benumbing fear. 



THE AUSTRIAN HUSSAR. 6a 

Bat Succor waits on Fortune's smile and beek. 

In the front rank the holder of a rein 
Threw himself forward round his horse's neck, 

And bending down, under the streaming mane, 
Caught up the child from frightful death below, 
And set her safely on his saddle-bow. 

This feat he did, and never checked the speed, 
Nor changed the pace, nor to a comrade spoke, 

Nor lost his hold on his submissive steed. 
Nor the alignment of the squadron broke. 

With modest grace, which still endears and charms, 

He gave the child back to her mother's arms. 

Voices of thousands to the welkin blue 

Cheered the good deed the brave hussar had done ; 
And other thousands cheered it when they knew ; 

But she win fondly clasped the rescued one, 

And the kind empress, in that storm of clieers. 

Could only tell their gratitude with tears. 
5 



66 THE AUSTEIAN HUSSAR. 

Bright as a star the moment, and how blest 
To the yomig trooper! when the emperor, 

Graciously taking from his roval breast 

One of the badges which men struggle for. 

Placed o'er the other's heart, so nobly bold, 

The shining golden emblem, more than gold. 

That other, then, of honor may have thought 
How unexpectedly it was his meed ! 

He had not found it in the way he sought ; 
But from an unpremeditated deed 

In which he saw no merit, had no toil, 

The flower had sprung, and from its native soil. 



THE PKEACHEE'S DOLE. 

In Edinburgh, amid its busy whirl, 

Guthrie, the preacher, walked one afternoon, 

And met a sun-browned little beggar-girl 
With eyes as tearful as a clouded moon. 

She sobbed and wept as if there stood across 

Her dark and friendless path a giant loss. 

Good Doctor Guthrie, pausing by her side. 
Asked her to tell him all her cause for woe. 

■*'My mother gave me sixpence, sir," she sighed, 
"And to the baker's yonder bade me go 

And buy a loaf of bread for us to eat ; 

But I have lost the money in the street. 



68 THE PREACHER'S DOLE. 

" Oh, she will beat me so when I go back ! 

What shall I do ? I know not what to do ! "' 
And cried as if in torture on the rack. 

In pity for the child, the Doctor drew 
A sixpence forth, and as he gave it said, 
" Weep not, my lass, for I will get your bread. "* 

He led her to a place where bread was sold. 
And while he bought a loaf, made free to say : 

" The child was sent for this ; but, I am told, 
She lost the sixpence for it on the way." 

The baker answered : " 'Tis a trade with her ; 

For she is always losing sixpence, sir." 

No indignation looked from Guthrie's eyes, 

No word of haste flashed hot from heart to tongue. 

He felt a larger, braver pity rise 

That such deceit should dwell in one so young; 

And, bending down, said to the child that she 

Was now an object of true charity — 



THE PREACHER'S DOLE. 69 

Knowing that she a living earned by sin. 

He felt more pity for her than before. 
He sorrowed at the want the poor were in ; 

But at all wickedness he sorrowed more. 
Weak charity had he if he should dole 
Bread for the body and neglect the soul. 

Thence to her home of squalor and decay 

The awestruck child and gentle Guthrie went ; 

It was a nest for wingless birds of prey — 

Children who, by an old man taught, were sent 

To raven on the town : the little girl 

Was found a place safe from the vile, gray churl. 



THE PICTUKE. 

A WIDOW by her landlord was oppressed 
To pay at once her backward coin of rent ; 

For he, cursed by the wealth that should have blessed. 
Forgot that he, too, in a tenement 

Dwelt, with unpaid arrear ; and surely he, 

More than the widow, lived in poverty. 

For they alone are rich who have obtained 
The love of God, for which no gold can pay. 

Blind to the peaceful joy he might have gained, 
The craven landlord, on a winter's day 

That pierced with cold and wind-thrust snow and sleety 

Drove forth the widow to the roofless street. 



THE PICTURE. 71 

Her clinging son, with elfin prattle, sought 
To charm away lier grief; yet, in Jiis heart. 

By the indignant pencil of his thought. 

The shameful scene was drawn in every part. 

There lived the widow's tears, and hard and base 

Stood out the likeness of the landk^rd's face. 

Like breaking waves, year after year rolled up, 
And in their tide the widow's son became 

A truthful painter, in whose life's bright cup 
A thankful world dissolved the pearl of fame. 

Then, with his brush, which spoke in every hue, 

The picture in his heart he strongly drew. 

Near to the landlord's home the painting hung, 
As at his threshold, in a public place ; 

To view it came the townsfolk, old and young, 
And said, " This is our neighbor's ruthless face, 

And this the cruel deed that he has done 

To the poor widow and her artist son.'' 



72 THE PICTURE. 

The landlord brought temptations coined and vast, 
And would have given half the wealthy town, 

To lay the brush-raised specter of his past : 

No gold availed ; the specter would not down ; 

But haunted him thereafter till he died. 

In looks and words and deeds, on every side. 



THE HERMIT. 

The holiday was azure-domed and fair, 

And to the Coliseum thronged again 
Blithe children, fresh and pure as morning air, 

Fond, tender women, and rude, brawny men ; 
And all gaze centered in the ring below, 
To view the gladiatorial show. 

The late few days had been to waning Rome 
A giddy wine in pleasure's brittle bowl. 

There had been pomp of legions marching home, 
And civic games, and races to a goal ; 

There had been fights with beasts; and now all breatl 

Served expectation at the show of death. 



74- THE HERMIT. 

This was the triumph which had been decreed 

To Stilicho, who, on an Easter-day, 
Had met the Gothic hordes, and made them bleed. 

And turned invasion into wild dismay ; 
But with drawn swords the gladiators came 
To end the pleasures with a deed of shame. 

Feeling the weight of eyes upon them rest, 
They came undauntedly, for often pride 

Shuts up the dens of fear within the breast. 
These men were bold to battle till they died, 

But lacked the fortitude, uncommon still. 

To show resistance to the public will. 

For it is less to face soon-ended death 
Than to oppose a popular, great wrong. 

But he was bolder, armed with fearless breath. 

The white-haired hermit, broad of soul and strong. 

Who in that deep arena dared intrude, 

And raise his voice against the multitude. 



THE HERMIT. 7S 

" This is not pleasure — it is shame ! " he cried. 

" O people, let these public murders cease ! 
Here let them end, and now, lest we be dyed 

In guiltless blood again, and mar our peace. 
Oh, let us not with sin God's grace repay, 
Who gave us might to drive the Goth away ! " 

Bareheaded, and with naked feet, he stood 

Between the fighters in the open place. 
Clothed in plain garb : his face was mild and good> 

And beautiful with kindness to his race ; 
For there are June-like souls so warm and free 
That love blooms in them for humanity. 

But round him loud the Coliseum rang 

With disapproval of his kind appeal ; 
The populace exclaimed : " On ! on ! Let clang 

The sluirp contention of exciting steel ! 
On, gladiators, on ! Nor heed nor look 
Give to the froward babble of this brook ! " 



76 THE HERMIT. 

Enraged that still lie stayed the swordsmen back, 
True as an arrow to his lieart's good aim, 

The whirlpool of the people in attack 

Surged down upon him, hissing as it came ; 

And, buffeted and trampled on, he died, 

And was as drift ingulfed in that round tide. 

For when the living whirlpool ebbed away, 
And cleared the barbarous arena's space. 

Stretched on the ground the hermit-martyr lay, 
A smile of triu'.nph on his peaceful face; 

His long, white hair was clotted with his gore, 

And marks of feet were on the garb he wore. 

Great is the martyr's blood, for it can gain 

Its owner's cause, and surelier than he ! 
For when the people saw the hermit slain, 

And through the storm-spent cloud the sun shone free, 
They loathed what they had done, and from that day 
The shows of gladiators passed away. 



THE KING'S SACKIFICE. 

For seven years the drought had parched the land, 
Yet day by day the sun blazed overhead, 

A hre-eyed fiend of fire with flaming brand. 

The stretching worm was by tootlied famine fed. 

No green thing grew, for starved men tilled the mold 

In the dry beds where once the rivers rolled. 

The fakirs of the swart, abundant gods, 

And magi, the consulters of the stars. 
In contrite sackcloth, bearing serpent-rods. 

Cleft the close air with words like scimetars : 
" The gods demand a human sacrifice — 
No rain will fall until the victim dies.*' 



78 THE KING'S SACRIFICE. 

The wise king sat in council on his throne. 

And heard the false priests goin^ up and down : 

^'A life!" he cried. "Must ever blood atone? 
I hate its clotted stain upon a crown. 

Yet, if I hold my peace, and, at their shrine, 

A life be offered, all the stain were mine ! 

'" Lo, it is somewhat more to be a king. 
Than gleam in robes of office, sit in state. 

Be first in pomps, and rule in everything : 
To love the people — that alone is great ! 

So I, to prove my love, and give you rain, 

Proclaim myself the victim to be slain ! " 

The fancied wrath of idols to assuage, 

Forth for his death they led their upright king; 

Kind Time, the snail to youth, the bird to age. 
Had touched him lightly with its passing wing. 

Youthful in age he looked, bright-eyed, smooth-browed, 

As for the sacrifice he knelt and bowed. 



THE KING'S SACRIFICE. 79 

Then, while the headsman held aloft the blade, 
A cloud, wet-laden, stole before the sun, 

And on the weapon, with a hand of shade. 
Laid dusky seizure; for the fates had spun 

A longer, royal thread : the cloud amain 

Scattered aslant its diamonds of rain. 



GUYOT OF MAESEILLES. 

The life misunderstood is sad as tears ; 

Its outer seeming courts the stab of scorn : 
It sits apart, and, bearing gibes and sneers, 

Feeds on the lonely hope to which 'tis born. 
It is a murmuring shell, whose rough outside 
Shows not the beauties that within abide. 

Such life was noble Guyot's of Marseilles. 

By patient industry he won his way, 
And, from whatever heaven streamed the gales, 

They blew him favor, for he worked each day, 
And trenched on night for further hours to use, 
Taxing inactive sleep for revenues. 



GUYOT OF MARSEILLES. gl 

The silver cord was loosed, and he was bent 
G-raveward ; but often he himself denied 

The wheaten fuel, coal of nutriment. 

Which keeps the hungry fire of life supplied. 

He wore mere rags against the sharpest frost, 

And, from his youth up, shunned the ways of cost. 

His rooms were mean, and on the bare, board floor 
He slept on straw, and oft the freezing air 

Hissed through the dusty seams and broken door, 
As if to drive his purpose to despair; 

But purpose, kin to sufferance, heeds no cold. 

And habits turn to needs as men grow old. 

The world condemns the miser: in the street 
The rich at Gnyot cast an honest sneer ; 

Even the poor folk, whom he chanced to meet, 
Hooted and scofied and after flung a jeer. 

For scorn of him who basely would withhold 

The cheapest comforts for the sake of gold. 
6 



82 GUYOT OF MARSEILLES. 

They found him lying dead upon his straw ; 

And thus, or with like meaning, ran his will : 
"In early youth, in fair Marseilles, I saw 

The poor with water were supplied but ill. 
And I gain's golden flower have widely plucked, 
And here bequeath, to build an aqueduct." 

O creeping water of the mountain-spring ! 

O dimpled water of the laughing brooks ! 
O water of the river ! whispering 

To the low bough which at its likeness looks — 
Publish in crystal, through the dells and dales, 
Of Guyot, noble Guyot of Marseilles! 



THE GALLEY-SLAVE. 

Although at heart of diverse mold and make, 
There lived two brothers who were like in face ; 

One did a petty theft, and by mistake 
The other was arrested in his place, 

And sentenced soon to be a galley-slave — 

Yet said no word his prized good name to save. 

Trusting remoter days would be more blessed, 
He set his will to wear the verdict out, 

And knew most men are prisoners at best. 
Who some strong habit ever drag about 

Like chain and ball ; and was content that he 

Rather the prisoner he was should be. 



84 THE GALLEY-SLAVE. 

But good resolves are of such feeble thread, 
They may be broken in temptation's hands. 

After long toil, the guiltless prisoner said : 

"Why should I thus, and feel life'a precious sands 

The narrow of my glass, the present, run. 

For a poor crime that I have never done?" 

Such questions are like cups, and hold reply ; 

For when the chance swung wide the prisoner fled, 
And gained the country road, and hastened by 

Brown, furrowed fields and skipping brooklets fed 
By shepherd clouds, and felt beneath the trees 
The soft hand of the mesmerizing breeze. 

Then, all that long day having eaten naught. 
He at a cottage stopped, and of the wife 

A brimming bowl of fragrant milk besought. 
She gave it him ; but, as he quaffed the life, 

Down her kind face he saw a single tear 

Pursue its wet and sorrowful career. 



THE GALLEY-SLAVE. 35 

Within the cot he now beheld a man 

And maiden also weeping. " Speak," said he, 

*'And tell me of your grief; for, if I can, 
I will disroot the sad, tear-fruited tree." 

The cotter answered : " In default of rent, 

We shall to-morrow from this roof be sent." 

Then said the galley-slave: "Whoso returns 

A prisoner escaped, may feel the spur 
To a right action, and deserves and earns 

Proffered reward. I am a prisoner ! 
Bind these my arras, and drive me on the way, 
That your reward the price of home may pay." 

Against his wish the cotter gave consent. 
And at the prison-gate received his fee ; 

Although it was a thing of wonderment, 
Along the road where labor paused to see, 

That one so weak and sickly dared attack 

This bold and robust youth, and take him back. 



86 THE GALLEY-SLAVE. 

Straightway the cotter to the mayor hied, 
And told him. all the story, and that lord 

Was much affected, dropping gold beside 
The pursed, sufficient silver of reward ; 

Then sought his better in authority, 

And gained the right to set the prisoner free. 

There is no nobler, better life on earth 

Than that of meek and brave self-sacrifice. 
Such life our Saviour, in His lowly birth 

And holy work, made His sublime disguise- 
Teaching this truth, still rarely understood : 
'Tis sweet to suffer for another's good. 



AGNES HATOT. 

When might made right in days of chivalry, 
Hatot and Ringsdale, over claims to land, 

Darkened their lives with stormy enmity ; 

And for their cause agreed this test to stand : 

To fight steel-clad till cither's blood made wet 

The soil disputed ; and a time was set. 

But Hatot sickened when the day drew near. 

And strength lay racked which once had been his boast. 

Then Agnes, his fair daughter, for the fear 
That in proud honor he would suffer most, 

Resolved to do the battle in his name, 

And leave no foothold for the tread of Shame. 



] AGNES HATOT. 

She, at the gray, first coming of the day, 

Shoolc off still sleep, and from her window gazed. 

The west was curtained with night's dark delay ; 
A cold and waning moon in silence raised 

Its bent and wasted linger, o'er the vale, 

And seemed sad Death that beckoned, wan and pale. 

But Hope sails by the rugged coasts of Fear ; 

For while awakened birds sang round her eaves, 
Our Agnes armed herself with knightly gear 

Of rattling hauberk and of jointed greaves; 
"Withal she put on valor, that to feel, 
Does more for victory than battle -steel. 

She had a sea of hair, whose odor sweet. 
And golden softness, in a moonless tide 

"Went rippling toward the white coast of her feet ; 
But as beneath a cloud the sea may hide, 

So in her visored, burnished helmet, there, 

Under the cloud-like plume, was hid her hair. 



AGNES HATOT. 8^ 

Bearing the mighty lance, sharp-spiked and long, 
She at the sill bestrode her restless steed. 

Her kneeling soul prayed God to make her strong, 
And prayer is nearest path to every need. 

She clattered on the bridge, and on apace, 

And met dread Ringsdale at the hour and place. 

They clash in onslaught ; steel to steel replies ; 

The champed bit foams ; rider and ridden light. 
Each feels the grim and brutal instinct rise 

That in forefront of havoc takes delight. 
The lightning of the lances flashed and ran 
Until, at last, the maid unliorsed the man. 

Then, on her steed, she, bright-eyed, flushed, and glad, 

Her helmet lifted in the sylvan air ; 
And from the iron concealment whicli it had. 

The noiseless ocean of her languid liair 
Broke in disheveled waves: the cross and heart. 
Jewels that latched lier vest, she drew apart. 



90 AGNES HATOT. 

" Lo, it is Agnes, even I ! " she said. 

" Who with my trusty lance have thrust you down I 
For hate of shame the fray I hazarded ; 

And yet, not me the victory should crown, 
But God, the Merciful, who helps the right. 
And lent me strength to conquer^in the tight.'' 



THE ARTIST'S PRAYER. 

Washington Allston, in a foreign land, 

Went to his studio, and knelt to pray : 
Starving and weak, he bowed, hand clasped to hand. 

With no more strength to keep the wolf at bay. 
Conscience, whose still, small voice grows loud and clear,. 
Had risen in his heart now sad and drear. 

Within the vast cathedral of the night. 

The stars, the altar-lamps, their thanks outshine ; 

Yet he, the artist, from whose soul shone bright 
The nobler lire of genius, God's divine 

And greatest gift to man, had never cast 

One ray of gratitude for mercies past. 



■92 THE ARTIST'S PRAYER. 

" I have been most ungrateful, Lord," he said. 

" Bound up in self, I have forgotten Thee ; 
Yet now, I pray, vouchsafe me this day's bread, 

And I will pay of my poor thanks the fee, 
As I now pay for favors heretofore — " 
The irreverent knocker clanked upon the door. 

Marquis of Stafford entered : " Please to say 
Who bought," he said, "your 'Angel Uriel.' "- 

•"It is not sold."— "Not sold! Then let me pay 
The price you ask for it." So it befell 

That friendship followed, and the artist came 

To better days, and had the use of fame. 



THE JEW'S PIETY. 

Danger ennobles duty simply done. 

Nicanor, an Alexandrian Jew, 
Had traded honestly with every one 

Until his spreading tree of fortune grew 
Beyond the small, dwarfed stature of his needs, 
And each bent bough bore reproducing seeds. 

And then, like him who, walking up the way, 
Turns round to question him that comes behind, 

He, turning, faced his heart and asked one day : 
" What shall I make my duty ? Fixed, my mind 

Demands its aim must now be understood, 

For every man should live for some set good." ^ .. 



94 THE JEW'S PIETY. 

Thereto his heart made answer : " Lips are fair ; 

Make two vast doors for lips, and go with tlieni, 
And hinge them on the Temple's mouth, that there 

They long may name thee to Jerusalem : 
With lily-work and palm thy doors be made, 
And both with beaten copper overlaid." 

In time the lips were wrought, and, with much gain^ 
He stowed them on a bark, and sailed away; 

And saw the land fade forth from off the main, 
While, 'neath the sun, the rippled waters lay 

Like the great roof that Solomon of old 

Built on the Temple, spiked with goodly gold. 

When certain days flew west a storm came up. 
And night was like a black and fearful cave 

Where Powers of Awe held banquet ; as cloud-cup 
Struck waved cloud-cup, the clash deep thunder gave, 

And spilled the wine of rain.: the thrilling gloom 

Was filled with loud but unseen wings of doom. 



THE JEW'S PTETY. 95 

Then said the master of the worried keel : 

" Yile Jew, thy doors are heavy : they must go ! " 

Nicanor cried : " Here, at thy feet, I kneel, 
And crave of thee to spare them : I will throw 

My goods away and gold, my proof of thrift; 

But spare the doors— to God my humble gift. 

" Despise me not ; for he that scorns a Jew 
Without just cause, himself shall be despised." 

Thereat his gains he gathered up and threw 
Into the sea, till all were sacrificed 

Except his gift ; but still the Pan-like blast 

Piped on the reed of each divested mast. 

Up spoke the sailors to their master dark : 
" We late made mention to our gods of this, 

And they require we shall unload the bark 
Of the vile Jew and all that may be his." 

As the dread judgment meek Nicanor heard. 

He radiantly smiled, but said no word. 



96 THE JEW'S PIETY. 

Then in the deep the lofty doors were thrown. 

Nicanor prayed, " I put my trust in Thee ! " 
And sprang out to the storm, and scaled alone, 

'Gainst Death, the rolling rampart of the sea. 
He sank and rose ; but, going down once more; 
His guided hand seized on a drifting door. 

Dripping and weak, he crawled upon his float, 
And heard the cry go by, " The ship is lost ! " 

Then shrieks, death-ended. Swords of storm that smote 
Were now soon sheathed, while flags of foam that tossed 

Were furled in peace, and good Nicanor found 

The lip there kissed the sweet and certain ground. 

A cape ran out, a long, rock-sinewed arm 
That buffeted the sea, and this had caught 

The Jew and both his doors ; and, free of harm 

He stood in dawn's gray surf: stout help he brought, 

And, going safely inland far and fast, 

The gifts were on the Temple hinged at last. 



THE JEW'S PIETY. 97 

Long centuries succeed, and Herod, king, 

Rose to rebuild the Temple : for rough stone, 

He reared stone snow, white marble : each pure thing 
He beautified. Nicanor's doors alone 

Were left. " These," said the wise high-priests, " shall be 

For a memorial of piety." 



A MORNING PASTORAL. 

If some way Bichat's theory be true, 

That animal and all organic life 

In man combine and culminate — the brain 

The animal, the heart organic life — 

I know w^herefore my' love unasked goes out 

To meadows, trees, clear brooks, and distant hills, 

For thus I am their fellow and their kin. 

I chiefly like, while yet the day is new. 
To walk among the fields along the road, 
And brim my heart with Nature as I go. 
The hoarse grasshoppers soon begin their drone; 
But here upon a leaf, one seems to drowse — 



A MORNING PASTORAL. 

A sleepy sailor in an open boat, 
Rocked on uneasy billows of thin air — 
A Palinurus, who, while piloting 
The Trojan galleys on disastrous seas, 
Drowsed into death, among the Siren rocks. 
Here, on a cliff, a noisy brook gets force, 
And, plunging under alders, leaps along 
Down to the fallow, rioting like a boy. 
Anon I start a thrush, and up he wings. 
And with a trail of music darts away. 
Seeking the old republic of high woods. 
Where he is citizen, but where his kind 
Use melody for speech, and have no flag 
Save the waved leaf above each wicker home. 
Over the tree-tops yonder flies a crow 
That boldly vents his unpopular caw. 
And breasts the stubborn wind to gain the shore, 
And cram his crop with what the tide brings in. 
All flowers beside the way are friends of mine, 
And once I knew a meditative rose 



100 A MOENING PASTORAL. 

That never raised its head from bowing down p 

Yet drew its inspiration from tlie stars. 

It bloomed and faded here upon the road, 

And, being a poet, wrote upon the air 

With fragrance all the beauty of its soul. 

I pause beneath an overhanging elm, 

Where, cut in granite of the vine-grown wall, 

The wide mouth of a quaint, conspicuous face, 

Speaks to all thirst with visible eloquence. 

Beside it sits a beggar on its trough. 

Who craves with quivering lip an alms from me. 

I give him from my earning, and go back 

Toward the loud city with a lighter heart. 



WINTER DAYS. 

'Now comes the graybeard of the north: 
The forests bare their rugged, breasts 

To every wind that wanders forth, 
And, in their arms, the lonely nests, 

That housed the birdlings months ago, 

Are egged with flakes of drifted snow. 

JS'o more the robin pipes his lay 

To greet the flushed advance of morn ; 

He sings in valleys far away ; 

His heart is with the south to-day ; 
He can not shrill among the corn. 



102 WINTEK DAYS. 

For all the hay and corn are down 
And garnered ; and the withered lea 

Against the branches bare and brown, 
Rattles; and all the days are brief. 

An icy hand is on the land ; 

The cloudy sky is sad and gray ; 
But through the misty sorrow streams 

A heavenly and golden ray. 
And on the brook that cuts the plain 

A diamond wonder is aglow, 

Fairer than that which, long ago, 
Sir Rohan staked a name to gain. 



A SUIT OF AKMOK. 

A SUIT of ancient armor in a hall, 

Stands like an unopposing sentinel ; 
I see its past behind it, and recall 

The chivalry that vexed the infidel. 
That waged fierce wars and wrought of woe increase 
In His mild name who is the Prince of Peace. 

This unworn armor has a silent speech; 

To more than steel the steel is riveted, 
And, empty and forlorn, appears to teach 

The patient hope which oft is felt and said^ 
That soon all armor to disuse shall pass, 
With visored helmet, hauberk, and cuirass. 



104 A SUIT OF ARMOR. 

There were true knights when mail like this was worn 

In the long struggle for Jerusalem. 
If o'er the crescent the red cross was borne, 

They died content. But fame yet lived for them, 
And troubadours their brave deeds rhymed upon 
From stubborn Autioch to Ascalon. 

iN'oblest the knights while they were few and poor; 

They vowed to tell the truth, to help the weak, 
To flee no foe, and hold each trust secure. 

They let their simple dress their lives bespeak. 
Firm in misfortunes, they had strength to be 
Humble and generous in victory. 

But when they rose to luxury and power, 

When wealth and honor, bright-eyed falcons, stood 

On their triumphant armor — in that hour 

Went forth from chivalry the soul, the good — 

And knighthood meant a price, and turned away 

From rugged duty into weak display. 



A SUIT OF ARMOR. 105 

For while slow progress up its path has toiled, 
Who has been faithful that has touched its gains? 

As the clean truth, if handled, soon is soiled, 
So, good is seldom pure that long obtains ; 

And the great cause, which sought to help and bless, 

Dies at the golden summit of success. 

The spirit fled, the body is but dust; 

It lingers in corruption and decay ; 
It can not look on favor nor mistrust, 

Though many praise it loud who said it nay. 
They are too blind to see, too dull to feel, 
'Tis empty as this man-shaped shell of steel. 



LOW TIDE. 
A friend's story. 

Under the cliif I walk in silence, 
"Where the wide waters ebb and flow ; 

And the white birds, changed by the sun into silver^ 
Glitter against the blue below ; 

And the tide is low. 

Here years ago, in golden weather. 

Under the cliff, and close to the sea, 
A pledge was given that made me master 

Of all that ever was dear to me ; 

And the tide was low. 



LOW TIDE. 107 

Only a little year fled by after, 

Then my bride and I came once more, 

And saw the sea, like a bird imprisoned 

Beating its wings 'gainst its bars, the shore; 
And the tide was low. 

Now I walk alone by the iilmy breakers — 

A voice is hushed I can never forget ; 
Upon my sea dead calm has fallen, 

My ships are harbored, my sun is set ; 
And the tide is low. 



YANDERLYJS^ AT KOME. 

The man who, with a friendless aim, sailed forth 

Erom doubting Spain toward the unknown West, 

I would so paint that men in after-years, 

Like me, long sick at heart with hope put off, 

Seeing his lifted and prophetic face 

That fronts the fact and substance of his dreams, 

Shall look not only on Columbus there, 

But see themselves in him, and each one feel 

That he, too, with persistence, shall set foot 

Upon the border of his hope's new world. 

How weak our hands to do the work of thought 
That flies before ! Here, after thirty years, 



VANDERLYN AT ROME. 10& 

I am again in Rome : now on the quest 

To find a portrait of my hero's face, 

And fill one panel at the Capitol. 

With failing force — weary, broken, old — 

How shall I say in color what I feel. 

Or make stand out the picture seen within ? 

'Tis well that doting retrospection comes 

To help us bear the burden of disuse, 

"When little light is left wherein to work. 

If so be any more may still be done. 

I, looking back, see that my work is true — 

At one with truth, and wrought with humble love. 

Men come and go ; but truth shall ever be. 

It does not fade, nor rust, nor waste away ; 

But, like the sun, endures : forgetting this. 

We painters miss the heights we might attain 

In feeling that the truthful work we do 

Will live and speak when we are silentest, 

And strongly plead tor us against neglect, 



110 VANDEKLYN AT EOME. 

The dull, cold-shouldered mother of regret, 
That in our hopeful faces shuts the door. 
For merit scorned may safely laugh at scorn, 
Because the common heart by nature turns 
And to the truth despised does reverence. 
But whether scorned or praised, good work abides, 
And, praised or scorned, the undeserving dies; 
And who is he, so short of sight, so vain, 
That willingly would have his poor work live? 

Painters there are who never touch a brush : 

Washington, Jefferson, and Madison, 

Upon the ample canvas of their hope 

Painted a great republic which to art 

Should be most bountiful, should wed no creed, 

But be fast bound to honor in all ways. 

And free to peaceful feet from every shore. 

Thus clear was their exemplar, and 'tis strange 

The work itself is so lamentable. 

How lono: before the outlines that are left 



VANDERLYN AT ROME. Ill 

Shall be defaced by shamed experience? 

Munificent to art ! — its artists starve. 

Art does not thrive without encouragement, 

Which follows surelier beneath a crown, 

Where titled wealth and taste are often joined, 

Than from republican ingratitude. 

For how shall art have that which is its due 

Where every nerve strains in the race for wealth. 

Which, being won, is not laid out for art 

Nor aught that will ennoble, but for dress 

And gay equipages— mere brainless show, 

Incongruous with true democracy? 

Nay, how shall art receive its just reward 

Where honest worth, willing to serve the state, 

Spurns the political and slimy rungs 

Which lead up to a short authority? — 

Where foul corruption, listless to rebuke, 

Veiled by the shadow of the Capitol, 

Stains weak hands with dishonorable gold, 

And so makes law? 



112 VANDERLYN AT ROME. 

It has been truly said 
That, lacking art, no nation can be great; 
But yet one wholly given up to it 
Is a top-heavy ship, not ballasted, 
And helpless in the fury of the storm. 
But in a baser, more ignoble case, 
A nation of mere dollar-getters, vv^arped, 
JS^arrow, sordid — a people such as mine, 
Who left me to stand waiting through life's noon, 
Through life's high noon, that never comes bnt once, 
And when my sad and only day is spent. 
Give the commission twenty years delayed. 
Why not have handed it fortliwith when asked ? 
Then I had ringed the whole Kotunda round 
With painted history, and from the past 
Called back a silent Congress to look down 
On men — the immortal on the mortal. 

But now, too late ! The studio is cold, 
The landscape on the easel rent across, 



VANDEELYN AT ROME. 113 

The palette broken, the last brush worn out. 
All colors fade ; for night we know not of, 
Soon, soon will close the brief, regretful day. 
Too late! too late! 



WHILE THE DAYS GO BY. 

I SHALL not say, onr life is all in vain, 

For peace may cheer the desolated hearth ; 
But well I know that, on this weary earth, 

Round each joy-island is a sea of pain — 
And the days go by. 

We watch our hopes, far flickering in the night, 
Once radiant torches, lighted in our youth, 
To guide, through years, to some broad morn of truth ; 

But these go out and leave us with no light — 
And the days go by. 



WHILE THE DAYS GO BY. 115 

'We see the clouds of summer go and come, 
And thirsty verdure praying them to give : 
We cry, " O I^ature, tell us why we live ! " 

She smiles with beauty, but her lips are dumb — 
And the days go by. 

Yet what are we ? We breathe, we love, we cease : 
Too soon our little orbits change and fall : 
We are Fate's children, very tired: and all 

Are homeless strangers, craving rest and peace — 
And the days go by. 

I only ask to drink experience deep : 

And, in the sad, sweet goblet of my years, 

To find love poured with all its smiles and tears, 

And quaffing this, I too shall sweetly sleep^ — 
While the days go by. 



SCIENCE AND THE SOUL. 

I SOUGHT, in sleep, to find the mountain-lands 
Where Science, in her hall of wonder, dwells^ 

When I had come to where the building stands^ 
I found refreshing streams, delightful dells, 

Invigorating air, and saw, on high, 

Turret and dome against the boundless sky. 

Out of her busy palace then she stepped, 
And kindly greeted me, as there I stood 

Doubting my right, and whether I had slept. 
" Welcome," she said, " and whatsoe'er of good 

You find in me, you have full leave to take 

For warp and woof of verses that you make." 



SCIENCE AND THE SOUL. IIT 

That these, lier words, for more than rae were meant, 
I felt, and thanked her as seemed fitting then ; 

IVhile, in her looks, I saw that she was sent 
To lighten work and knit together men ; 

And that with patience such as hers could be, 

The coral mason builds the isles at sea. 

Servant of Use, upon that mountain wise 
Was the plain title she was proud to own, 

And, clearer than her penetrating eyes. 

The light of Progress on her forehead shone. 

Her smile the lips' sharp coldness half betrayed. 

As if a wreath upon a sword were laid. 

But now, about her palace everywhere. 
She led my steps, and often by her side 

A lion and a nimble greyhound were. 
The swifter to a leash of wire she tied. 

And made a messenger of good and ill ; 

The stronger, with white breath performed her will. 



118 SCIENCE AND THE SOUL. 

She traced the lapse of awful seas of time 
On fossil limestone and on glinting ore ; 

Described wild wonders of the Arctic clirae, 
And of all lands her willing slaves explore ;• 

Opened laboratories to my view, 

And showed me much that she could skill to do. 

Then, down a marble stairway, to her bower 

She led the gracious way. " And here," said she. 
" I meditate beyond the midnight hour ; 

Invent for peace or war, for land or sea ; 
Head the round sky's star-lettered page, or grope- 
In the abysses of the microscope." 

But, while she spoke, there stood another near — 

The fairest one that ever I beheld ; 
She seemed the creature of a higher sphere 

Whence all of mist and shadow are dispelled. 
Her voice was low and gentle, and her grace 
Yied with the beauty of her thoughtful face. 



SCIENCE AND THE SOUL. 119 

A clear, unwaning light around her shone — 

A ray of splendor from a loving Source — 

A light like sunshine, that, when it is gone, 

Leaves darkness, but sheds glory on its course ; 
Yet, in my dream, her footstep made me start. 
It was so like the beating of my heart. 

I turned to Science, for small doubt had I 

That she best knew her whom I deemed so fair, 

And asked: "Who is she, that so heedfully 
Waits on you here, and is like sunny air? 

In her all beauty dwells, while from her, shine 

Truth, hope, and love, with effluence divine." 

Then Science answered me, severe and cold : 
" She is Time's brittle toy : the praise of men 

Has dazed her wit, and made her vain and bold. 
With subtle flattery of tongue and pen, 

They title her the Soul; I count it blame. 



120 SCIENCE AND THE SOUL. 

" Alone, in her gray-celled abode, she dwells, 
Of fateful circumstance the fettered thrall, 

The psychic sum of forces of her cells, 
Molecular and manifold in all ; 

But, aeons passed, ere nature could express 

This carbon-rooted flower of consciousness. 

*' Life, from the common mother, everywhere 
Springs into being under sun and dew ; 

And, it may be, that she who is so fair, 
From deep-sea ooze to this perfection grew, 

Evolving slowly on, from type to type. 

Until, at last, the earth for man was ripe. 

^' But like a low-born child, whose fancy's page 
Illuminated glows, she fondly dreams 

That hers is other, nobler parentage ; 

That, from a Source Supreme, her being streams ; 

But, when I ask for proof, she can not give 

One word, to me, of knowledge positive. 



SCIENCE AND THE SOUL. 121 

*' Wherefore, regretfully I turn away, 

In no wise profited, to let her muse 
On her delusion now grown old and gray. 

It is the mirage still, that she pursues — 
Some image of herself, against the sky. 
To which she yearns, on golden wings to fly." 

What time I left that palace high and wide. 
She followed me, whom I had thought so fair, 

To guide me down the devious mountain-side, 
Speaking with that of sorrow in her air 

Which made me grieve, and soon a tear I shed 

To think that here she is so limited. 

*' Oh, I am life and more, I am the Soul," 

She said, "and, in the human heart and brain. 

Sit throned and prisoned while the brief years roll. 
Lifted with hope that I shall live again ; 

That when I sail the flood, with me shall be 

The swift-winged carrier-dove of memory. 



122 SCIENCE AND THE SOUL. 

" I shall have triumph over time and space, 
For I am infinite and more than they. . 

In vain has Science searched mj dwelling-place, 
For, delve in nature's secrets as she may 

For deeper knowledge, she can never know 

Of what I am, nor whither I shall go. 

" Beyond this mystery and sacred bound, 

She shall not reach nor see, though longing much. 

And empty as the sad wind's hopeless sound. 
And frail as glass that shatters at a touch, 

Are all her theories concerning me — 

Nay, fruitless as the moaning of the sea." 



MARY MAGDALENE. 

All night I cried in agony 

Of grief and bitter loss, 
And wept for Him whom they had nailed 

Against the shameful cross. 

But in the morning, in the dark, 

Before the east was gray, 
I hastened to the sepulchre 

Wherein the body lay. 

The stone was rolled away I found ; 
And filled with fear and woe, 



/ 



124 MAKY MAGDALENE. 

I straight to two disciples ran, 
Whereof to let them know. 

I said : " The body of the Lord 

Is not within the tomb ; 
For thej^ have taken him away 

Unnoticed in the gloom, 

^' Where have they laid him? who can tell 
Alas ! we know not where." 

The words were slower than my tears 
To utter my despair. 

The two disciples coming forth, 
With hurried footsteps sped. 

Till, at the garden sepulchre, 
They found as I had said. 

They saw the door-stone rolled away, 
The empty tomb and wide, 



MARY MAGDALENE. 125. 

Tlie linen face-cloth folded up 
And grave-clothes laid aside. 

The morn was cold ; I heeded not, 

With sorrow wrapped about ; 
Till both were gone to tell the rest, 

I stood and wept without. 

Then stooping down and looking in, 

I saw two angels there; 
In white eflPulgence garmented, 

They were surpassing fair. 

Their faces shone with love and joy, 

And bore no trace of pain ; 
One at the head, one at the feet. 

Sat where my Lord had lain. 

To look on them I was afraid, 
Tlieir splendor was so great : 



126 MARY MAGDALENE. 

They said to me, '' Why weepest thou ? " 
In tones compassionate. 

" I weep," I said, " for that my Lord 

Is taken hence away. 
And that, alas ! I do not know 

Wliere he is laid to-day." 

Then rising up and turning back, 

I saw One standing by. 
And knew the lily of the dawn 

Unfolded in the sky. 

But in the pale, uncertain light, 
Too blind with tears to see, 

I thought it was the gardener 
There at the tomb with me. 

It soothed me much, the day before, 
To say it in my mind, 



MARY MAGDALENE. 127 

That in a garden tliey liad laid 
The Flower of all mankind. 

Until Thy fragrance fell on me, 
A thrall to sin was I ; 

Flower of Peace ! O Flower of Grace ! 
Thy love is liberty ! 

But they had taken him away, 
Who is of sin the price ; 

1 held the gift that I had brought, 
Of perfume, oil, and spice. 

I had not staid to braid my hair. 

And, in the early breeze, 
The long, black luster, damp with tears, 

Down fluttered to my knees. 

I dimly saw the gardener ; 
In grief I bowed my head ; 



128 MARY MAGDALENE. 

"Why weepest tliou? whom seekest thou?" 
He softly, gently said, 

" O sir, if thou have borne him hence," 

I eagerly replied, 
" Tell me where thou hast laid my Lord, 

Whom they have crucified — 

" And I will take him thence away ; 

Oh, tell me where he lies ! " 
" Mary ! " he said — I knew the voice, 

And turned in glad surprise. 

For he was not the gardener 

Whom I advanced to greet ; 
I cried, " Rabboni ! " joyfully, 

And knelt at Jesus' feet. 



rOKEKNOWLEDGE. 

At Pentland Firth, beside the seacoast white, 

Stands an old inn, to which the young Liird came. 

To stay one boisterous and rainy night, 

And taste good cheer before tlie hearth-stone flame. 

Well entertained, the pleased and drowsy guest, 

Before the wee, small hours, retired to rest. 

His father's death had left him an estate 

' Upon an Orkney island off in sea. 

And in the Hall, now part in ruins. Fate 

Had roofed and reared his tilled ancestry; 

To visit it, the laird was on hid way, 

And would embark betimes the coming day. 
9 



130 FOEEKNOWLEDGE. 

His wife and children he liad left behind 

In England : they, with boding dreams of him, 

Floated along the dusky vales of mind. 
On sleep's reflective river deep and dim. 

But what dreamed he? — what passed before his sight, 

In the weird depth of that forbidding night ? 

He seems to be within his banquet-hall, 
The ancient hall that crumbles to decay; 

It blazes with a hundred lights, and all 
Is splendor and magnificent array; 

The floor is tiled, the ceiling arched and high, 

The four walls hung with heavy tapestry. 

The table long, with glass and silver spread, 
Is filled, both sides, with guests of high degree ; 

While he, the laird, is seated at the head. 
And wonders who these gentlefolk may be ; 

But, as his glance from face to face is cast. 

Up, at the spectral sight, he starts aghast ! 



FOREKNOWLEDGE. 131 

The dead, wlien they come back to us in sleep, 

Are seldom frightful and of horrid mieu ; 
Their changeless forms the bygone likeness keep ; 

Just as in life, they in our dreams are seen ; 
Their presence seems not strange ; they speak their will ; 
"We answer them, and are familiar still. 

But here, the dreamer shudders to behold 

The unexpected faces of his guests ; 
From marble tombs, with sculptures stained and old 

Of knights recumbent and heraldic crests. 
These have come forth, whose sleep is cold and grim, 
And round the midnight board are met with him. 

He knows the faces and the dresses all ; 

Their dusty portraits in the gallery. 
Hanging against the dark, wainscoted wall. 

He often, when a boy, had paused to see. 
They are his ancestors, who, side by side, 
Sit ranged along in order as they died. 



132 FOREKNOWLEDGE. 

But at the board's end opposite the laird. 

Clad in the tawny skins of beasts of prey, 
Sits a tierce man, blue-eyed and yellow-haired;,. 

To whom the brave drank wassail in his day ; 
In battle did this bold Norse chieftain die, 
And he was founder of the family. 

The father of the laird sits by his son ; 

His light of life went out the year before ; 
And next, there is a fonder, dearer one. 

Come back, through sleep, to be with him she bore"; 
Her smile, that in the laird's heart has a place, 
Still lingers on her mild and saintly face. 

How long the son sits spellbound in that room 
Defeats surmise : the guests, in hollow tones,. 

Murmur together of impending doom, 

And each the ill, forerunning news bemoans^ 

The laird hears death foretold on either hand; 

But more than this he does not understand.. 



FOREKNOWLEDGE. 133 

Then the guests rise: the Norseman, from his seat, 
Moves to the door that softly opens wide, 

And at the threshold turns on noiseless feet ; 
He lets his eyes upon the laird abide, 

Then, with a warning gesture, cries "Beware!" 

And like a vapor fades in outer air. 

Thus, from the hall, the vague ghosts, one by one, 
Slowly, in turn, depart: each, at the door. 

Pauses, and facing, as the first had done, 

The dreamed-of dreamer and the light once more. 

With look and hand that warn from direful doom, 

Exclaims "Beware!" and vanishes in gloom. 

;So ends, the dream; and, wlien the morning gray 
Broke, and the laird looked out on wave an<l sky, 

For the dream's sake, he would not sail that day ; 
But staid on land, until the storm swept by. 

That time the boat, which to the islands crossed, 

Foundered at sea, and all on board were lost. 



DONALD. 

O WHITE, white, light moon, that sailest in the sky, 

Look down upon the whirling world, for thou art up so 

high, 
And tell me where my Donald is who sailed across the. 

sea, 
And make a path of silver light to lead hira back to me. 

O white, white, bright moon, thy cheek is coldly fair, 
A little cloud beside thee seems thy wildly floating hair; 
And if thou wouldst not have me grow as white and cold 

as thee. 
Go, make a mighty tide to draw my Donald back to me. 



DONALD. 135 

light, white, bright moon, that doth so fondly shine, 
There is not a lily in the world but hides its face from 

thine ; 

1 too shall go and hide my face close in the dust from 

thee, 
Unless Mnth light and tide thou bring my Donald back to 
me. 



RECOMPENSE. 

In spring, two robins from the southern lands 
Built a brown nest upon an unsafe limb 

Of the tall tree that bj my window stands, 

And every morn they praised God with a hymn ; 

And, when a certain season passed away. 

Five light-green eggs within the building lay. 

Above the rush and clatter of the street, 
Devotedly was guarded each green trust, 

And the round house was an abode most sweet, 
Roofed with expectant wings : better to rust 

With iron patience, than forego a hope. 

And pent life in the shells was felt to grope. 



EEGOMPENSE. I37 

But one dread day, before the sun went down, 
A cloud arose, a black and monstrous hand, 

That robbed the sunset of its golden crown, 

And filled the sky, and shook the frightened land. 

The portals of the storm were opened wide, 

And pealing thunder rolled on every side. 

Then was it some unchained, malicious gust 

Broke off the limb whereon the nest was stayed, 

And to the ground the tender dwelling thrust. 

And wrecked its hapless store. The birds, dismayed, 

"Were shrill with grief, and beat the moving air 

With wings whose frantic whir was like despair. 

At dawn, my neighbors, living o'er the way. 
Sent me the whisper that tlieir child was dead ; 

And, when they led to where the body lay — 
The free, winged spirit's shell, untimely slied — 

And the wild cries of their distress I heard, 

I thought with pity of each parent bird. 



138 RECOMPENSE. 

Yet grief is but a cloud that soon is past ; 

Hither the mated robins came once more, 
And built, with cunning architecture, fast 

Upon the tree which grows before my door; 
And in the soft-floored building could be seen 



Time passed, and to tlie good home opposite 
Another babe was born, and all the love 

That was bereft that fierce and stormy night, 
Fell to the latter child as from above : 

And in the nest five yellow mouths one day 

Of their impatient hunger made display. 



AUTUMN BALLAD. 

How mild and fair the day, dear love! and in these gai- 

den ways 
The lingering dahlias to the sun their hopeless faces raise. 
The buckwheat and the barley, once so bonny and so blithe> 
Fall before the rhythmic labor of the cradler's gleaming 

scythe. 

Of grapes and all the fruits partake, which Autumn gives 

to-day. 
As robed in red and gold, she rules, the Empress of Decay. 
Out to the orchard come with me, among the apple-trees ; 
No dragon guards the laden boughs of our Hesperides. 



140 AUTUMN BALLAD. 

This golden pear, my darling, wbicli I hold up to your 

mouth, 
Is a hanging-nest of sweetness ; but the birds are winging 

south. 
The purses of the chestnuts, by the chilly-fingered Frost, 
Were opened in his frolic, and their triple hoards are lost. 

Last night you heard the tempest, love — the wind-entan- 
gled pines, 

The spraying waves, the sobbing sky that lowered in gloomy 
lines ; 

The storm was like a hopeless soul, that stood beside the sea, 

And wept in dismal rain and moaned for what could never 
be. 



A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

With wings of love as stainless and as white 
As snow un tracked or clouds against the blue, 

Clothed with God's peace, and radiant with light 
Which over him his aureola threw. 

An angel dwelt in heaven, and all bliss, 

Unending and unspeakable, was his. 

Out of God's will, to this dear angel's heart 
Came in grand music what in words is said : 

" To yon far sparkle of the earth depart — 

That bridge the short-lived generations tread — 

And I will give it thee to guard and tend 

A soul untried, and be his guide and friend. 



142 A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

"Or guide, or friend, trutli-whisperer, or guard, 
Be each, and all in one, to keep him true ; 

Yet, if he long neglect thee, and make hard 
And wearisome this duty thine to do. 

Thou needst not wait to strive against his sin, 

But, at the gates uplifted, enter in." 

Swift are the rays, the arrows of the morn, 

That pierce the dark and shoot across the sky- 
Swifter tlie angel who, through ether lorn. 

Pierced on displaying wings, until on high 
God's joy-paved city dwindled to a star, 
And the small earth, a pale moon, shone afar. 

Hither, in silent flight, he took his way. 
And found at noon, beside a shady stream, 

A youth asleep, and hovered where he lay, 
Appearing to the sleeper in a dream; 

And was a vision of sublime delight. 

With gleaming wings and robe of snowy white. 



A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 143 

With what regretful tears in Heaven's book, 
The record of our lives is oft set down ! 

rilled with high hope the handsome youth forsook 
His native village for the crowded town, 

And met the varied shapes of vice and sin 

That, clothed with soft enticement, walk therein. 

He battled long their vain, misleading charms, 
Helped by the angel in his troubled breast : 

Arose no peal of strife, no noise of arms, 
But fierce and giant warfare, wild unrest. 

Raged in the soul ; and Virtue's citadel, 

Stormed by the lower passions, crashing, fell. 

When these have sway, how dark the soul and drear! 

His gentle friends, who saw wdth inner eyes, 
Beheld the man debased, yet, ever near, 

An angel following with ruthful cries. 
Beseeching him his erring steps to cease. 
To turn and rest upon the heart of Peace. 



144 A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

With holy angels there is joy in pain — 

Their pain is borne for love, and love is joy. 

This angel would not now return again 

To heavenly doors ; but he would have employ 

To lead a soul to pleasant fields beyond, 

From the deep slough of error and despond. 

His still, small voice fell fainter — less and less — 
Pleading and sad as following he went ; 

And the long years were one with weariness. 
Till to the man, life's shadow, death, was sent. 

But heeding his good angel, ere he died 

lie worshiped Him whom he had crucified. 

Bearing in arms of love the soul set free. 
The angel, with God's glory on his face, 

Mounted on wings outspread exultirigly, 

Trailing his lily robe ; and as through space 

Angel and soul approached the central star, 

Before them heaven shone with joy afar. 



A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 145 

Oh, happy are the meetings that await 

The crossers to that star of higher powers ! 

The soul found that the angel was a mate 
That he had loved and lost in boyhood hours. 

Ah ! who can tell ? Perhaps to all God sends, 

As guardian angels, their departed friends. 

It may be that the loved and lost come back 
From faith-seen mansions in the realm on high, 

To comfort us when trouble, wild and black. 
Glooms in the heart, and overclouds its sky — 

Coming to share unseen with us the years, 

And raise in splendor what is dark in tears. 
10 



MAY m KINGSTON. 

Our old colonial town is new with May : 
The loving trees that clasp across the streets, 

Grow greener sleeved with bursting buds each day. 
Still this year's May the last year's May repeats ; 

Even the old stone houses half renew 

Their youth and beauty, as the old trees do. 

High over all, like some divine desire 
Above our lower thoughts of daily care, 

The gray, religious, heaven-touching spire 
Adds to the quiet of the spring-time air ; 

And over roofs the birds create a sea, 

That has no shore, of their May melody. 



MAY m KINGSTON. 147 

Down tlirough the lowlands now of lightest green, 

The undecided creek winds on its way. 
There the lithe willow bends with graceful mien, 

And sees its likeness in the depths all day ; 
While in the orchards, flushed with May's warm light. 
The bride-like fruit-trees dwell, attired in white. 

But yonder loom the mountains old and grand, 
That oif, along dim distance, reach afar. 

And high and vast, against the sunset stand, 
A dreamy range, long and irregular — 

A caravan that never passes by. 

Whose camel-backs are laden with the sky. 

So, like a caravan, our outlived years 
Loom on the introspective landscape seen 

Within the heart : and now, when May appears, 
And earth renews its vernal bloom and green. 

We but renew our longing, and we say : 

'• Oh, would that life might ever be all May ! 



148 MAY IN KINGSTOK. 

" Would that the bloom of youth which is so brief, 
The bloom, the May, the fullness ripe and fair 

Of cheek and limb, might fade not as the leaf; 

Would that the heart might not grow old with care, 

Kor love turn bitter, nor fond hope decay ; 

But soul and body lead a life of May ! " 



FACIEBAT. 

As thoughts possess the fashion of the mood 
That gave thein birth, so every deed we do 

Partakes of our inborn disquietude 

Which spurns tlie old and reaches toward the new. 

The noblest works of human art and pride 

Show that their makers were not satisfied. 

For, looking down the ladder of our deeds, 

The rounds seem slender: all past work appears 

Unto the doer faulty : the heart bleeds, 
And pale Regret comes weltering in tears. 

To think how poor our best has been, how vain, 

Beside the excellence we would attain. 



MR. ABBEY'S POEMS. 



Extracts from some Notices of the English Newspapers. 



From the London Examiner. 
Mainly inspired by a desire to furtlier the spirit of democracy, and by a love 
of generous and cliivalric actions. ... It is pleasant to be occasionally re- 
minded that there may be other sources of inspiration than a caune celebre, and 
other elements to be taken into consideration than form and color. 

From ihe. London Illustrated Graphic. 
About the best of Mr. Abbey's poems are " Tlie Caliph's Magnanimity," 
"The Bedouin's Rebuke," and the story about the operatic singer — it was Tam- 
burini, if we remember rightly. 

From the London Morning Post. 
Jn the volume before us faith, hope, and charity, rather than personal bravery, 
are lauded. The author, who is an American dating from Kingston, New York, 
has endeavored " to express, however brokenly, that Christian sentiment whicli 
should commonly obtain to make a true democracy." His book has sterling 
merit and evinces soundness of heart and facility of rhyme. . . . The cadences 
in many of Mr. Abbey's poems are full of music. . . . The moral is a little too 
obtrusive, and tends to weaken the effect of the deed, which in many cases is 
very praiseworthy, as in " Guyot of Marseilles " — from which we quote. The 
ballad of "Agnes Hatot, a. n. 1390," has the old chivalric ring of earlier 
days and deeds in it. It glitters like a lance-point, and stirs your blood, as Sir 
Philip Sidney said, " like the sound of a trumpet." English readers of poetry 
will find much to praise and to enjoy in Mr. Abbey's poems. 



From the London Academy. 
Mr. Abbey tells his story clearly and effectively ; his sympathies are manly, 
warm, and true. 

From, the London Boohseller. 

Particularly good are " The King's Sacrifice," " The Galley-Slave," " The 
Patriot's Courage," and " The Roman Sentinel." 

From the Pall Mall Gazette. 
We should not recommend Mr. Abbey's most heroic poems so much as one or 
two like "The Bedouin's Rebuke," on account of the suspicion of fiction which 
the motto from Montaigne creates. 

From the Leeds Mercury. 
Mr. Abbey has given us a book worth having and worth reading. (Henry S. 
King & Co.) The stories on which the several poems are based are many of them 
well-known stories of history. They are told with much beauty of diction and 
with rich poetic feeling, and throughout tiiem all runs a high moral purpose. Sto- 
ries of noble actions, unselfish deeds, and true moral heroism have been carefully 
selected, and they are told in a manner to win for them the admiration they de- 
serve. Most of the poems are short, and yet too long to quote in eztenso, and 
they can not be given iu part without being spoiled ; we give one, however, " The 
Drawbridge-Keeper," in the hope that it may induce our readers to look further 
into this excellent little book. 

From the Brighton Herald of December 11, 1875. 
It may then be inferred that the poems are political ? By no means so. "The 
spirit of democracy" iilustra;ed in Mr. Abbey's book is simply, when writ large, 
the spirit of humanity — of love of man — which burns in the bosoms of all true 
men, whether they live under democratic, aristocratic, or even despotic govern- 
ments. . . . The volume contains both longer and shorter poems than this that 
we have copied, both testifying to the power of the writer, who can not fail 
to be included in the number of those deserving to be called poets of the New 
World. 



(K 



(K 



(K 



(K 






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 






^'^'•g 



